


the sun might set and rise in it

by bigelows



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/F, Married Life, Post-Season/Series 01, Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:16:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22329205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigelows/pseuds/bigelows
Summary: Oh, to explain her living prison! To explain what she’s seen in the library! The fireplaces! The kitchen sink!Shibden may have a four hundred-year history but it does not have much to hide.--Ann Walker has a lot of feelings about leaving Crow Nest behind.
Relationships: Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 97





	the sun might set and rise in it

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Gentleman Jack nor am I profiting from this work.

_I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams._

_\- Virginia Woolf,_ The Waves

\--

Crow Nest breathes at night.

Or so Ann Walker’s mother described that peculiar sensation, a prickling on the back of their necks as the sun set each evening.

(She sat at the dining table, glass of wine in hand, explaining as she would the weather.)

Her father, normally beyond her mother’s fantastic claims such as these, agreed wholeheartedly. You could feel the respiration, the ins and outs of a living thing when you closed your eyes, felt your own heartbeat and listened.

Elizabeth thought it all a fun joke; her brother made sure to leave a candle burning at all hours just in case.

Ann searched for the lungs.

\--

In the carriage ride back from York, rings on their fingers, stolen kisses with the windows closed, Ann’s heart races at the thought of moving.

She wants to leave Crow Nest behind, she realizes.

Yes, her clothes and books would be moved shortly, she knew that before coming to York. Yes, she would wake up in a different location tomorrow.

But she had never put into words this desire to move on for good. 

She has been stationary for far too long. She needs the cage’s door to be left open. She needs to fly away, not to return. She needs a new challenge, a new thing to fear.

She steals another kiss from Anne, her _wife_ , places her hands at the bottom of Anne’s waistcoat, she needs to feel her breathe.

“I know darling, but we’ll be arriving in a quarter of an hour,” Anne says through their deep kisses, removing Ann’s hands from her torso.

Ann nods against her lips, unable to express her desire to go home.

\--

Ann was far from a precocious child. Her brother took up most of her parents’ time. Elizabeth was a model eldest daughter. Ann wanted to take up as little space as possible. She wanted not to be a nuisance.

As the youngest of three, her nannies couldn’t be bothered. They had enough to deal with her brother running amok, tarnishing the Walker name with his horrible maths skills and muddy boots.

She had free roam of the grounds from a young age. She knew all of the hiding spaces to be found in the park, where the cook smoked pipes in the cellar, the prettiest flowers in the garden, the ugliest banister on the stairs.

Her intimate knowledge of the house was a secret she kept, her own private world inhabited by others.

She’d spend days sketching the light through the window in the maid’s quarters.

She would sit painting as they beat the rugs outside the kitchen.

She knew the schedule the kitchen boy followed to replace the candles (her brother’s room, every 2 days; the sitting room, once a week).

She loved the laundry.

Crow Nest was her whole world, a ticking clock, her best friend.

\--

Ann sleeps like the dead her first night at Shibden.

(Not at all because of several rounds of Anne inside her, both of them naked for the first time).

She awakens due to the sounds downstairs. It seems that Marian has taken offence to something Mr. Lister (Jeremy now, probably, maybe) has said.

Anne shifts beside her. She murmurs in her sleep, she’d never noticed that before.

(She holds in her cries as she comes, conscious of the family down the hall. Anne asks to hear her, over and over again).

The sun is bright outside the window. It’s definitely much later than they meant to sleep.

“Anne, Anne, wake up,” she whispers into her ear, delighting in the sight of Anne’s eyes opening, her wife, this first morning of so many to come, “I think we’ve missed breakfast”.

Anne instinctually reaches for her watch, it’s a quarter to eleven, writes in her journal and turns back to Ann.

“So we have. How did you sleep?” her voice is deeper than usual, hair askew and Ann is so in love.

“Better than I ever have before,” she replies, “and I mean that. Really, much better than ever.”

Anne smiles at her, gives her a kiss. They’ve missed breakfast. They might as well miss lunch.

\--

When her brother died, Ann’s sleep patterns worsened.

She had spent years staying up into the early morning to listen for the breathing. It became a sort of game of hers, how many breaths she could feel before she fell asleep.

She’d then wake up a few times each night to listen to the calm, even ins and outs of her house. It never worried her.

But when John failed to return from Italy, the estate now technically hers, the creaks and cracks and flowing air of her beloved Crow Nest turned sinister.

Her private world, a place she’d grown to love and cherish, now a prison. Elizabeth in Scotland, no one else could care for it.

Instead of seeing a lovely curtain, partially concealing a mark on the wall from that time a servant knocked over a table, she saw upkeep and money and things to worry about.

How could she stop a table from hitting a wall? How could she maintain her beloved hedges? She could replace every banister. She would never spend time with the kitchen staff again. She could do nothing.

How to maintain this living, vibrant thing.

How to look it in the eye, feel its heart beat and know she’s failed. Its spirit dwindling, disappointment already shining through.

Death the enemy, coming for all she holds dear.

She sat at her dressing table, toying with her nightclothes, smelled the cool night air coming through her window.

As the clock struck midnight, she lit a candle and walked into the darkness.

\--

Once settled into a routine at Shibden, once all of the tribe had been called upon, once Anne’s pit opened, Ann started to notice the silence at night.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, not at all. Just an absence. A ringing in the ears, say, or something you don’t know to miss until it’s no longer there.

There are no lungs at Shibden, no gut and offal to sift through. It’s a building, a lovely if in-desperate-need-of-renovation building, that her wife loves so much.

It’s home. It’s comfortable. It’s where she’d like to spend every night for the rest of her life, asleep in Anne’s bed with her family close by. 

They use the drawing room at Shibden for callers, quite the scandal some would say. Her bonnets sit next to Anne’s cravats. She does not hide the rings on her left hand, despite her cousins’ looks.

This is her life now, the one she’s chosen.

She has not returned to Crow Nest since packing up all that would fit.

She’s nervous to go back, nervous to explain that she’s afraid she’s abandoned something. Nervous to see the clock on the landing, nervous to make sure the stairs are in the same place, the rugs haven’t changed, that the wallpaper hasn’t shifted.

Anne would humor all of these things, undoubtedly, and then happen to suggest a trip to Dr. Belcombe within the next few weeks.

Oh, to explain her living prison! To explain what she’s seen in the library! The fireplaces! The kitchen sink!

Shibden may have a four hundred-year history but it does not have much to hide.

\--

Her search began soon after her parents died. Her mother’s story and her father’s agreement spurring her on, a sign from beyond.

It became sort of like a treasure hunt, light a candle at night and wander around. Feel the smooth paper on the walls, glide down the stairs on her slippers, closing her eyes and letting the night envelope her entirely.

Elizabeth caught her once. It must have been 3 or 4 in the morning. Ann was in the drawing room, hands pressed against the cool stone of the fireplace. You could still smell the smoke from the fire, she thought there was residual heat.

Earlier that evening, her Aunt had further insisted she marry (and marry well, unsaid) as they took tea after dinner. 

Ann wanted to take a coal from the fire, set flame to the rugs. Tear down the tapestries, hurl a log out the window. How dare they discount her grief.

She was drawn to this fireplace tonight, feels the familiar cadence in her fingertips.

Her sister walked into the room, candle at the ready and Ann turned in greeting.

Elizabeth approached her as though she were a wild animal, something to tame, easily spooked.

“Ann, what are you doing up? And why are you down here alone? Let’s go back to bed” Elizabeth grabbed her arm, pulling her back towards the main hall and the stairs.

It wouldn’t be that easy, not tonight.

“Promise me you won’t think I’m crazy, promise” Ann begs, pulling her arm back.

“I promise, Ann, what is it?” Elizabeth exasperated, it is extremely late.

Ann’s braid flows down her back, her eyes are bright and shining and Elizabeth knows this is the start or the end of something horrible.

“I’ve been looking for it” Ann says, resolute.

“Looking for what?” Elizabeth now realizing this will be a much longer conversation than she’s prepared to handle at the moment.

“What makes it breathe”.

Elizabeth nods, takes a look at the fireplace, a look back at Ann. She laces their fingers together and takes her upstairs.

There will be more questions in the morning.

\--

It’s late, supper has ended, Ann is beating Anne at backgammon.

“How do you thrash me every single time? What are your tricks?” Anne’s smile glows in the firelight, eyes wrinkling.

“You know I can’t reveal all of my secrets” Ann winks in reply.

She is gathering up the pieces, putting the board away. This part of the night has ended.

“We’ll see about that later, shall we?” Anne suggests in a low tone.

“Possibly I could be persuaded but only under certain circumstances,” Ann has grabbed a novel, pretending to read. Oh, these merry games we play!

Anne plucks the book from her hands, grabs her wrists. Ann feels heat pooling at her touch, she is extremely wet.

“I’d say we could discuss the possible arrangements to be made… in the bedroom. Is that amenable, Miss Lister?” Ann asks, walking towards the stairs.

“Of course, Miss Walker. Nothing would please me more” Anne follows.

Marian, on the settee, rolls her eyes.

\--

After John’s death, Ann found herself in the kitchen.

The chill of the sink, the stores in the corner, the kitchen table rough under her hands. She knows these as well as any part of this house by now. The candle superfluous, she could walk by instinct alone.

_Yes, here is where it is_ , she thinks.

“Yes, here is where I’ll find it and then I can sleep all night and then all of this will be fine and I will find someone to help me and I will not feel alone” she tells herself, hands braced against the basin.

The clock on the landing, her constant companion, is still ticking. She’s surprised she can hear it from a whole house away.

She pauses for a moment to feel the familiar breaths, in and out, the accompanying air. It’s very strong here.

Ann goes through every cupboard, overturns every bowl, inspects every glass. The moonlight guiding her way, her candle long since burnt out.

If she can just find the right piece, she can rest.

Just as she resolves to come back tomorrow, dawn now breaking outside the window, she sees the chipped teacup.

Before John left for Italy, the last time she and both of her siblings would ever be together, John knocked a cup against his tooth. The cup chipped but he did not.

They laughed about it, assumed the teacup would be thrown away.

Ann runs her fingers over the chip, feels the smooth underside. The sun is making everything brighter, the kitchen staff will be in any minute now.

She places it, carefully, in the basin and smashes it with a bowl.

The breathing stops. Her heart pounds.

She wonders what will wake it next.

\--

Something has startled her awake, a horse’s whinny probably.

They are to leave for Switzerland tomorrow, on their first trip together. Abroad! She’s to go abroad!

Anne is also awake, looking out the window. She looks dashing in her flannel drawers.

“What is it, Anne?” She asks, turning to face her wife. She’d been hoping to sleep as much as possible to prepare for the journey ahead.

“Probably a rabbit spooked that new cart horse… again” she replies, making her way back to their bed, “I hope it didn’t scare you”.

“Oh, I’m fine. I used to wake up more than I slept, you know.” She curls into Anne’s side, relishing the silence, “There was no reason for it either, I would just wake up and know I had to look around”.

“In that big house, I don’t blame you,” Anne is kissing her head, wrapping her arms tightly around her.

Ann cuddles in, relishing in the comfort of her wife.

\--

When Anne called on her the first time, she noticed the breathing grow fainter. She stayed awake late, hoping to feel its familiarity but it never came.

After the incident with Mrs. Priestley in the library, she spent hours walking around the room, felt a gust of air.

It’s only when Harriet tells her of those poor men, her happiness now her cause of death, that the breathing comes back.

A moan now, heavy and labored and gasping.

She knows it’s the clock on the landing, she doesn’t have to look this time. She knows its ticking is now taunting her.

Everything she loves turns sour.

Anne and Catherine comfort her, but it’s no use. As long as she’s in this house, her happiness will turn against her. She could wander the halls every night until she dies but she would never find the cause. There is nothing to break to put her back together.

Captain Sutherland collects her to go to Scotland, Anne comes to say goodbye. She stays all night.

And this, its last gift, her love by her side, a quieting hum in the background.

\--

They return from the continent with a loaded carriage, Eugenie’s vomit on every wheel, Thomas’ broken arm (don’t ask), and an all-encompassing desire to be home.

Anne jumps down as soon as they pull to a stop. Aunt Anne, Jeremy and Marian in the drive to greet them.

They kiss both of the travelers with equal enthusiasm. Ask about the ferry from Calais, how was Lawton Hall, did they see anyone while in Leeds?

Anne answers all of their questions, both making their way inside to the necessary. It has been a long way home.

Marian pulls Ann aside to make sure she’s all right. “Anne can get a bit carried away, as we all know. Would you like to lie down?”

Ann waves her off, says she’s fine.

She pets Argus in the drawing room, makes her way to Anne’s office, sits on the sofa there.

When Anne finds her several minutes later, her hair is pulled down and her waistcoat undone. Ann does not know how she got so lucky.

“I was wondering where you went, why of all places are you in here?” Her brows are furrowed and hands gesturing.

Ann wants to drink tea and smell fire smoke and build a clock from scratch.

“I never really come in here, I thought I might as well after being away for so long,” she replies while removing some of the pins from her hair. She needs to bathe.

Anne joins her, grabs her left hand in her right. Stares at her face, incredulous at this person who has chosen her and chosen the least comfortable room in the entire house as her resting place.

Ann turns and smiles at her, they’re both laughing.

“We made it home, Miss Walker”.

“That we did, Miss Lister” Ann glances over her shoulder, leans in for a kiss.

The sun sets, night falls, and the next day begins.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I started this thinking it would be a fluffy lil marriage thing. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
